I said nothing. Instead I tried to imagine what it must have been like, to have seen my child every day, back when the phrase every day had some

meaning, before every day became severed from the one before it. I tried to imagine waking every morning knowing who he was, being able to plan, to

look forward to Christmas, to his birthday.

How ridiculous, I thought. I don’t even know when his birthday is.

‘Wouldn’t you like to see him?’

My heart leapt. ‘You have photographs?’ I said. ‘Could I—’

She looked surprised. ‘Of course! Loads! At home.’

‘I’d like one,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But—’

‘Please. It’d mean so much to me.’

She put her hand on mine. ‘Of course. I’ll bring one next time, but—’

She was interrupted by a cry in the distance. I looked across the park. Toby was running towards us, crying, as, behind him, the game of football

continued.

‘Fuck,’ said Claire under her breath. She stood up and called out. ‘Tobes! Toby! What happened?’ He kept running. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go and

sort him out.’

She went to her son and crouched down to ask what was wrong. I looked at the ground. The path was carpeted with moss, and the odd blade of

grass had poked through the tarmac, fighting towards the light. I felt pleased. Not only that Claire would give me a photograph of Adam, but that she had

said she would do so next time we met. We were going to be seeing more of each other. I realized that every time would once again seem like the first.

The irony: that I am prone to forgetting that I have no memory.

I realized, too, that something about the way she had spoken of Ben – some wistfulness – made me think that the idea of them having an affair was

ridiculous.

She came back.

‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. She flicked her cigarette away and ground it out with her heel. ‘Slight misunderstanding over ownership of the ball.

Shall we walk?’ I nodded, and she turned to Toby. ‘Darling! Ice cream?’

He said yes and we began to walk towards the palace. Toby was holding Claire’s hand. They looked so alike, I thought, their eyes lit with the same

fire.

‘I love it up here,’ said Claire. ‘The view is so inspiring. Don’t you think?’

I looked out at the grey houses, dotted with green. ‘I suppose. Do you still paint?’

‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘I dabble. I’ve become a dabbler. Our own walls are chock-full of my pictures, but nobody else has one. Unfortunately.’

I smiled. I didn’t mention my novel, though I wanted to ask if she’d read it, what she thought. ‘What do you do now, then?’

‘I look after Toby mostly,’ she said. ‘He’s home-schooled.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘Not through choice,’ she replied. ‘None of the schools will take him. They say he’s too disruptive. They can’t handle him.’

I looked at her son as he walked with us. He seemed perfectly calm, holding his mother’s hand. He asked if he could have his ice cream, and

Claire told him he’d be able to soon. I couldn’t imagine him being difficult.

‘What was Adam like?’ I said.

‘As a child?’ she said. ‘He was a good boy. Very polite. Well behaved, you know?’

‘Was I a good mother? Was he happy?’

‘Oh, Chrissy,’ she said. ‘Yes. Yes. Nobody was more loved than that boy. You don’t remember, do you? You had been trying for a while. You had an

ectopic pregnancy. You were worried you might not be able to get pregnant again, but then along came Adam. You were so happy, both of you. And you

loved being pregnant. I hated it. Bloated like a fucking house, and such dreadful sickness. Frightful. But it was different with you. You loved every second

of it. You glowed, for the whole time you were carrying him. You lit up rooms when you walked into them, Chrissy.’

I closed my eyes, even as we walked, and tried first to remember being pregnant, and then to imagine it. I could do neither. I looked at Claire.

‘And then?’

‘Then? The birth. It was wonderful. Ben was there, of course. I got there as soon as I could.’ She stopped walking, and turned to look at me. ‘And

you were a great mother, Chrissy. Great. Adam was happy, and cared for, and loved. No child could have wished for more.’

I tried to remember motherhood, my son’s childhood. Nothing.

‘And Ben?’

She paused, then said, ‘Ben was a great father. Always. He loved that boy. He would race home from work every evening to see him. When Adam

said his first word Ben called everyone up and told them. The same when he began to crawl, or took his first step. As soon as he could walk he was taking

him to the park, with a football, whatever. And Christmas! So many toys! I think that was just about the only thing I ever saw you argue about – how many

toys Ben would buy for Adam. You were worried he’d be spoilt.’

I felt a twinge of regret, an urge to apologize for ever having tried to deny my son anything.

‘I would let him have anything he wanted, now,’ I said. ‘If only I could.’

She looked at me sadly. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know. But be happy knowing that he didn’t want for anything from you, ever.’

We carried on walking. A van was parked on the footpath, selling ice creams, and we turned towards it. Toby began to tug at his mother’s arm. She

leaned down and gave him a note from her purse before letting him go. ‘Choose one thing!’ she shouted after him. ‘Just one! And wait for the change!’

I watched him run to the van. ‘Claire,’ I said, ‘how old was Adam when I lost my memory?’

She smiled. ‘He must have been three. Maybe four, just.’

I felt I was stepping into new territory now. Into danger. But it was where I had to go. The truth I had to discover. ‘My doctor told me I was attacked,’ I

said. She didn’t reply. ‘In Brighton. Why was I there?’

I looked at Claire, scanning her face. She seemed to be making a decision, weighing up options, deciding what to do. ‘I don’t know, for sure,’ she

said. ‘Nobody does.’

She stopped speaking, and we both watched Toby for a while. He had his ice cream now and was unwrapping it, a look of determined

concentration scoring his face. Silence stretched in front of me. Unless I say something, I thought, this will last for ever.

‘I was having an affair, wasn’t I?’

There was no reaction. No intake of breath, no gasp of denial or look of shock. Claire looked at me steadily. Calmly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You were

cheating on Ben.’

Her voice had no emotion. I wondered what she thought of me. Either then or now.

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘But let’s sit down. I’m just gasping for a coffee.’

We walked up to the main building.

The cafeteria doubled as a bar. The chairs were steel, the tables plain. Palm trees were dotted around, an attempt at atmosphere ruined by the cold air

that blasted in whenever someone opened the door. We sat opposite each other across a table that swam with spilled coffee, warming our hands on our

drinks.

‘What happened?’ I said again. ‘I need to know.’

‘It’s not easy to say,’ said Claire. She spoke slowly as if picking her way through difficult terrain. ‘I suppose it started not long after you had Adam.

Once the initial excitement had worn off there was a period when things were extremely tough.’ She paused. ‘It’s so difficult, isn’t it? To see what’s going

on when you’re in the absolute middle of something? It’s only with hindsight we can see things for what they are.’ I nodded, but didn’t understand.

Hindsight is something I don’t have. She went on. ‘You cried, awfully. You worried you weren’t bonding with the baby. All the usual stuff. Ben and I did what

we could, and your mother, when she was around, but it was tough. And even when the absolute worst was over you still found it hard. You couldn’t get

back into your work. You’d call me up, in the middle of the day. Upset. You said you felt like a failure. Not a failure at motherhood – you could see how

happy Adam was – but a failure as a writer. You thought you’d never be able to write again. I’d come round and see you, and you’d be in a mess. Crying,

the works.’ I wondered what was coming next – how bad it would get – then she said, ‘You and Ben were arguing, too. You resented him, how easy he

found life. He offered to pay for a nanny but, well …’

‘Well?’

‘You said that was typical of him. To throw money at the problem. You had a point, but … Perhaps you weren’t being terribly fair.’

Perhaps not, I thought. It struck me that back then we must have had money – more money than we had after I lost my memory, more money than I

guess we have now. What a drain on our resources my illness must have been.